Elves: Beyond the Mists of Katura (22 page)

‘Yniss preserve me, but that was good,’ he said.

Grafyrre turned to him, his expression questioning. Auum opened his mouth to speak but felt the weight of Il-Aryn magic behind him and the dull glow of a barrier. Hooves thundered on
cobbles.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Just follow me.’

Gorsu could scarcely believe it. They were going to win, against all the odds, and not even the elves or the bastard eastern magic could stop them. From the ground the warriors
swarming the ladders were roared on by their comrades who crowded at the bases for their turn. Many had died, many would still die, but Gorsu could see the gaps appearing in the defensive lines and
the spaces his tribesmen were creating.

The shamen among the reserve line had done terrible damage but, more importantly, they had forced archer and mage alike from the walls to cower elsewhere, leaving the way clear for the assault.
The early morning sun was shining on the Wesmen and although he hated Ystormun and his filthy cadre, Gorsu couldn’t deny he was looking forward to the glory they would bestow upon him when
the day was done.

Julatsa had nothing left. A few arrows flew over the walls from the ground behind but they fell short. Spells still hit the ground in front of the gate, but the Wesmen had long since cleared the
strike zone so now their only effect was to deplete the casters’ stamina. It was no surprise when the spells stopped falling.

Gorsu ordered more warriors to the foot of the ladders, ready to ascend. He wanted more pressure on the Julatsans, more space – enough to get the shamen up there to fire down into the
streets. Then it would only be a matter of time. He turned to Lorok.

‘Your shamen have proved themselves this morning.’

‘I’m astonished you ever doubted they would.’

‘I doubt the courage of all but my own warriors.’

A sound from his left caught Gorsu’s attention. Julatsa’s gates were opening, cogs grinding and hinges shrieking in protest. Simultaneously, a brief commotion stirred through the
struggle up on the walls ahead of him. It travelled left to right. He saw warriors fall.

New human castings fired out from behind the gatehouse, angling left and right, slamming into the ground just before his reserve lines, sending up walls of fire and spattering flame across as
yet unscorched ground. An opaque barrier snapped into place in front of the gates as they rattled open. It was a fresh if utterly unsubtle tactic. Gorsu added his voice to the stream of orders
turning shaman fire on the barrier. Hafeez was bellowing for his tribesmen to form up ready to take on whatever came through.

The weight of black fire directed at the ramparts was diminished but that shouldn’t matter. This was a desperate counter-attack, and once beaten back it would leave them even closer to
victory. Gorsu waited for a heartbeat and felt a moment of calm, like the fading of a breeze, before cavalrymen galloped through the barrier, backed by casting after casting crashing down on their
flanks.

‘Get men behind them; attack the gates!’ roared Gorsu. ‘Hafeez, get men—’

Gorsu caught a change in the movement on the walls in the corner of his eye. He swung round and his breath caught in his throat. They were jumping off. Forty feet, surely a death fall. He stood
and stared. It was . . . it was beautiful. They soared out, arms spread to balance themselves. Thirty of them at least, diving headlong, tucking their bodies into tight forward rolls and landing on
the ground as if they’d stepped from the bottom tread of a flight of stairs.

And then they ran. Dear spirits, they ran, and he could barely see them any more.

‘Incoming!’ Gorsu screamed, drawing his long sword and racing into the middle of his reserve lines. ‘Protect the shamen. Turn your fire, damn you all, turn your
fire!’

Gorsu heard an eerie keening sound and dozens of his warriors and shamen fell, ugly blades stuck in their faces, chests, stomachs and limbs. Blood fountained in the air and a head bounced and
rolled on the packed ground. The elves were among them, just like before, only this time the shamen could not get clear sight.

They were like blurs across the ground, impossible to track. He saw the glint of blades, saw elven bodies fly through the air and saw his people being slaughtered.

‘There are only thirty of them,’ he muttered. But his warriors were packed too close together, desperate for defensive compactness when they needed exactly the opposite.
‘Space! Give yourself room to swing! Keep them back; hack at the air, or anywhere!’

Gorsu pushed into the lines, his blade in two hands. He swung it in front of him as an elf surged at him. The edge carved into empty air and Gorsu felt his hair move and a breath of wind over
his head. He swung round. The elf landed, struck one blade into the throat of a shaman and carved his other into a tribesman’s shoulder.

Black fire traced across the ground and played into the air, as much a risk to his people as it was to the elves.

‘Find your targets!’ he roared, spinning round in a tight circle. ‘We can take them!’

Cavalry ploughed into the Wesman lines to his left and thundered on towards the warriors turning from the ladders to join the fight. Wytch fire took three riders from their saddles before elves
killed the shamen. It was chaos. Up on the walls his warriors were being beaten back now that there were no more climbing to join them.

Arrows started falling again, picking off shaman and warrior alike. Gorsu looked for Hafeez in time to see him fence away a jab to his midriff but miss the second strike to his face. The lord
crumpled, his nose and right eye split open, his lower jaw smashed.

‘Form a circle,’ howled Gorsu into the tumult engulfing him, hoping some would hear. ‘I want order!’

But he wasn’t going to get it. They were attacked by so few but the enemy seemed to be everywhere and his forces were too close to the walls. Arrows were raining down more steadily now.
Gorsu sought a target, anything to give him and his people hope. There was one elven body on the ground but surely a hundred of his warriors.

There: running into a knot of warriors and shamen but slow compared to the rest. He was close enough and he was clearly wounded. Gorsu could see an arm hanging limp, blood staining a bandage
near his shoulder. Other elves flowed around him, carving destruction, but he was weak.

Gorsu howled a battle cry and raced in. One blow could turn the tide, especially if he struck it. One blow and they could rally. Gorsu heard the thundering of hooves again and dived to the
right, rolling away from the charge that battered into his forces, scattering his warriors in all directions.

He rose and ran on. The damaged elf struck a killing blow and turned half away from Gorsu, who raised his sword and swung it hard. Only at the last did the elf sense him and turn, catching the
blow on his blade and deflecting it, but at the cost of his balance. He fell.

Gorsu drew back for the killing blow. He felt something to his right. He faltered and turned his head. Another elf stood there where a pulse ago there had been empty space.

‘How can you be there?’ whispered Gorsu. ‘How can you be so fast?’

Gorsu saw the blade chop into his neck. He felt it slice all the way through. He stood just for a moment then his head rolled back and he felt himself falling.

Dimly, he heard elven voices issuing orders.

Ulysan pulled Auum to his feet.

‘Yniss spared you, then,’ said Auum.

‘That he did.’

Auum glanced up at the walls. They were filling with mages and archers once more. Harild’s cavalry had driven great holes in the enemy lines and the Wesmen were in tatters.

‘Time to finish it. Break back to the walls!’

Elves sprinted from the enemy. Up on the walls it was the signal they were waiting for. As the Wesmen tried to gather themselves, a devastating volley of spells and arrows engulfed them,
scattering them across the field, driving them back. Beyond the reach of the castings, cavalry drove in, wheeled and returned, reinforcing the rout.

Inside, Auum sat with his back to the wall, feeling the pounding of hooves and spells vibrate through his body. He felt exhausted.

‘I wonder how many we lost,’ he said.

Ulysan squatted beside him. He was cut on both arms; there was a slash in his jacket and a livid bruise developing on his forehead.

‘Pray to Shorth it is not too many, but we have to expect losses. Even under the shetharyn, we are still vulnerable to a lucky blow and to their black fire. We’re both evidence of
that.’

‘So little time to rest,’ said Auum. ‘We’ve got to move on in a couple of days, join the main fight as, apparently, we must. I have no desire to stay in this stinking
country one moment longer than I have to.’

Ulysan smiled. ‘But you were never here, right?’

‘And don’t you forget it. Come on, time to grieve for the fallen. Help me up, would you?’

Takaar could sense the extraordinary density of magic long before they came to the shattered remains of the Septern Manse. At first they’d tracked a group of Wesman
warriors and shamen but they’d overtaken them when it was clear they were heading for the same destination.

They’d increased their speed, making light work of the easy terrain and sleeping for only a few hours a night. The Senserii were still with him, despite his determination to visit the
Manse, because they were
his
people. They were the only ones who still believed in him and trusted him.

And it confuses me every day that they do so.

‘You know nothing of loyalty,’ muttered Takaar as he followed Gilderon through some dense scrub, hoping to get a view of the Manse from a rise.

Your version of it, involving running out on your people and killing your most devoted student? No.

‘I will not return to ancient history and I will not explain myself again. Not to you.’

Two of the Senserii had scouted the ground around the Manse earlier that morning, and Gilderon had recommended they lie low until nightfall, given the human presence in and around the ruins. But
now night was full and the cloud cover darkened the sky to a pitch that humans would find very difficult.

Takaar could see the glow of campfires long before they had crawled to the edge of the brush to look down on the Septern Manse. His eyes adjusted quickly to the scene of light and deep dark and
he took in the blasted buildings and chattering humans while he breathed the strong scent of magic, past and present.

There was precious little of the Manse left. One or two of the outbuildings appeared largely intact but they were of no consequence – stores and stables, nothing more. The surviving
footprint of the Manse gave a good impression of its scale. It must have been an impressive structure. At its centre a quartet of chimney stacks still stood proud, supported by the remains of
dividing walls and a single door frame. Elsewhere, scarred brick and stone occasionally rose up a storey and in a couple of areas even supported a broken roof timber, but mostly the Manse had been
blasted to its foundations.

Kerela had given him the impression that Wytch Lord magic had caused the destruction, but that was inaccurate. A Wesman attack may have triggered the devastation, but the remnants of the energy
lines suggested that every single casting that had detonated was from the inside out.

‘He made this all happen,’ breathed Takaar.

And wouldn’t it be wonderful to know exactly how.

‘It would but I think it rather unlikely we’ll learn it here.’

‘Takaar?’

Gilderon was staring at him. Takaar held up a hand.

‘Just thinking aloud,’ he said.

Gilderon nodded, as he always did. Takaar always wanted to say he was talking to his tormentor, as Gilderon knew he was. But he never did.

It’s because you’re ashamed of me. That hurts.

‘What is our next move?’ asked Gilderon. ‘We can’t stay here. Auum will expect news of our arrival in Korina soon enough.’

‘Auum be damned,’ hissed Takaar. He looked down at the five campfires and counted around forty people gathered about them, pottering among the ruins with lanterns or buzzing around
the extensive stores stacked near four rows of tents which could easily contain other humans. ‘When will the Wesman force reach here?’

‘Two days at the speed we witnessed. They are fit and strong,’ said Gilderon.

‘You like them, don’t you?’

Gilderon frowned and shook his head. ‘I respect them as fighters and in one respect I agree with Auum. We have more in common with them than with our chosen allies.’

‘Magic has changed all that,’ said Takaar shortly.

‘Magic is changing everything.’

Do I detect dissension?

‘You detect nothing,’ said Takaar and he searched Gilderon’s face for betrayal.

‘Takaar? We can’t stay here,’ repeated Gilderon.

‘How many Wesmen were in that raiding party, do you think?’

‘Fifty warriors and nine shamen,’ said Gilderon. ‘A significant number. But that’s not why we can’t stay here.’

Gilderon gestured at the humans in front of the Manse.

‘These are our allies,’ said Takaar.

‘Are you so sure of that?’

‘Why are you questioning me so much all of a sudden?’ asked Takaar. He looked into Gilderon’s eyes again but saw only loyalty there. ‘Seems like Auum has turned your head
too.’

Gilderon tensed. ‘Auum has no influence over me. But he has raised proper suspicions concerning those who seek the spell.’

‘Gilderon,’ said Takaar gently. ‘Auum’s views on magic are based entirely on ignorance. Surely you believe that magic is the greatest force for good in this world or you
wouldn’t be with me. Finding and understanding Dawnthief can only enhance that force, don’t you see?’

Your patronising tone is coming along very well. Have you noticed just what a skilled fighter Gilderon is?